


Static

by ImmodestMussorgsky



Series: dumb dbd drabbles [1]
Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, some mentions of violence but nothing graphic?, theres a million of these but i love danny so whatever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:53:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27137587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImmodestMussorgsky/pseuds/ImmodestMussorgsky
Summary: Danny Johnson needs some R&R.
Series: dumb dbd drabbles [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1980890
Kudos: 19





	Static

**Author's Note:**

> Just some Danny stuff. I might add some more to this if I come up with any other ideas.

Danny’s brain is radio static when he gets home. He slams the door to his car, mashing the lock button on his keyfob until the junker chirps in response. The key sticks in the lock and he growls in frustration as he twists it, finally shouldering the door to his apartment open and setting his bag down on the floor. 

The place isn’t the nicest, but he’s turned it into his own little haven. There’s a neat row of houseplants lined up by the windowsill and a few chic posters up on the walls. The couch isn’t new, but it sure as hell is comfortable. The kitchen is dated, but neat and spotless. He keeps the place so clean, it could be a double page spread in _Good Housekeeping_. He can’t imagine living with a roommate, much less a messy one. Dirty dishes and crumbs on the counter make him antsy. If he had to be around another person’s mess, he’d be spending most of his energy trying not to gut them. So he’s thankful for his apartment, cramped and dingy as it may be. 

Tonight he can’t be bothered to flick on the TV and channel surf on the couch. This was his third day spent revising his article on the new fast food chain opening in town and if he’s forced to write another paragraph on the history of KFC, he’s going to lose his goddamn mind. At this point he’s convinced that his boss is just making him redo these out of spite. The old bastard liked seeing Danny bite down his arguments, head bowed, taking back his writing for another round of revisions. The only thing keeping Danny’s knife out of his throat is the fact that he’ll be jobless without him.

He’s frazzled, each thought clouded by something negative and sinister. He doesn’t stomach failure easily. It bothers him that his writing is imperfect, that his work is unacceptable. It doesn’t help that his stomach is growling indignantly. He hasn’t eaten since breakfast. 

Danny ambles to his bedroom and begins unbuttoning his shirt. He practically tears it from his body and tosses it into the laundry basket, then eyes it reproachfully and picks it back up to fold neatly. Even though he’s spent and practically itching to get his day clothes off, he can’t let it sully his room. It’s a carefully crafted safe haven, the only place he allows himself to fully unravel, and the space has to be respected. 

He shimmies out of his trousers and folds those into a neat rectangle, draping them over his shirt on the edge of the basket. The socks come off next, wadded carefully together. He strips off his boxers and picks out a nightshirt and his favorite pajama bottoms-- cute baggy flannel patterned with sleepy little Snoopies-- and sets those on the bathroom counter. The shower takes forever to warm up. For the amount of rent that his stingy broad of a landlady charged, he’d expect it to come out magically at the right temperature the instant he turned the knob. But he’s forced to stand in the lukewarm stream until it finally gets hot enough to be comfortable. 

His ritual in the shower is short but offers some much needed catharsis. When he steps out, he feels a little newer, a little less downtrodden and weary. His pajamas feel so much more comfortable than the stuffy trousers and button up he usually wears to work. He combs his hair back haphazardly with his fingers and trots out into the kitchen to find something to eat. 

The fridge isn't usually well stocked. Most of the time, it contains more liquids than it does food. A fresh six pack of beer sits invitingly on the bottom shelf, accompanied only by half of a sub from the sandwich shop he had bought yesterday. It's no five-star steak dinner, but it's something, at least. He pops open a beer, settling down onto the couch with his sandwich. Tonight he's going to plan out the murder of one John Harold, editor-in-chief of the Roseville Gazette.

He produces his notebook from his secret stash in his TV stand cabinet. It’s one of his most prized possessions-- a soft cover leather-bound volume with a hundred-sixty blank pages ready for his secrets. His favorite black fountain pen is clipped to its cover. He thumbs through dog-eared and well worn pages. _Elijah Daniels, 23. Lauren Rhodes, 35. Andrew Garcia, 57._ The lives of previous victims are written out in lines of neat handwriting, little polaroid pictures of them pinned and taped to their pages. He’s proud of the notebook. It’s the only piece of writing he’s ever enjoyed. 

_John Harold, 62. Male. Editor-in-Chief of the Roseville Gazette._

_Balding. About 170 lbs. Married, but not happily._

_Stops at the liquor store every night after work. Sometimes takes a detour to his mistress’ house. Calls his wife and tells him the office is holding him up, but she probably knows better._

The line stops there. He hasn’t stalked John enough to know his routine down to the hour like most of his other victims, but that’s because he hasn’t planned to kill the old bastard yet. Tonight is just an entertainment of his fantasy, a de-stressing daydream about something he’s wanted to do for a very long time. 

_Method: Hunting knife between the ribs, to make it painful. Maybe once in the stomach for good measure._

He taps his chin with the end of his pen. Surely he could spice up this killing a little more. 

_Idea: write something in his blood? Something poetic for irony. Maybe scatter a few pages of his favorite novel on his body._

Danny smiles in satisfaction. Maybe he’ll carry this one out before he skips town. He’ll have to make his getaway inconspicuous, though. It might point fingers to him if he leaves town the week after his boss’ murder. 

He finishes the last of his beer, tosses the last few bites of sandwich into the trash can, and shuts his book. It’s late now, and the streets are mostly silent beneath the endless black blanket of the night sky. The static subsides, and his thoughts have never been clearer. 


End file.
